na foine ting: "this is a fine thing, here" or "look at this fine thing" or "I've got a very fine thing here, check it out" or "well, this is a damn pretty fucking kettle of fish; nice work, buckethead."

Had some fabulous email, caught "Shrek" with G and Bec last night, which was the first time G's ever seen a movie in a theater, and after hiding his head in my lap for the first 10 minutes (which was the previews up until the moment the knight in armor came galloping onscreen and he sat bolt upright), G thoroughly enjoyed it. Shrek was great, but G's reaction was even better.

Then I caught Lynx' 11:15pm game, which late hour they more than made up for by being, well, Lynx. Noble in the face of adversity, but not too noble, because Kevin got sent off the ice and even other than that there were a fair number of black jersey minutes spent in the penalty box. Some absolutely fantastic goals, great plays, and general offensive domination.

Coming back from two points behind must have been primarily for dramatic effect, although it's possible Joey really wasn't on the planet for that one goal. Or maybe he felt bad about the temper tantrums and crying on the other team's part and thought he'd just give them one or two. He seems kindhearted that way...

And yeah, good hockey makes me happy. Tripp (who was on the opposing team and seemed quietly if diplomatically unhappy about some of the BS that went down) said something about 11:15 amateur games being not worth the effort, but it's not at all true.

This is the best hockey. Where you know everyone involved, where you know who they are and a bit about their hearts and a lot about their play and when once and a while there's a turn up to the stands and a grin, or a wink, or you know they feel your gaze and it matters.

Where there's no salary or fame or any other reason to go all out except it matters absolutely in that span of three twenty minute periods. For you, for the team.

I see it in Lynx in particular, maybe. That huge heart, that generosity of spirit and total willingness to take it however far it has to go.

I've paid a lot for tickets and gotten far less. And that's never mind the additonal perk of being able to drink beer with this team now and then.

*

Yesterday was also a Fed Ex day for Gavin and I, a complicated ritual involving picking him up, going to the Fed Ex near my work, dropping off packages and securing a styrofoam pop-out airplane, which we take to the little indie coffee shop next door. Gavin rapidly and competently assembles the airplane toy (complete with little shims to hold the wings in) while I get us our drinks.

Then he holds court with the host of by then gathered onlookers, telling them all about the various parts of the Fed Ex plane (which apparently includes guided missles--who knew?) and how to count to ten in Chinese.

Sometimes he has a cookie.

As we were leaving yesterday, we were discussing hockey and his jersey number, which has been 4 since he was old enough to know what a jersey number was and how important it is. Yesterday he admitted the possibility of other numbers, specifically 5, 6, and 7. Apparently now these would be OK also.

I said, "what about my number?"

He gave me a blank look.

"You know. My number. 12. Who else has that number?"

He knew it was an important question. He thought carefully, taking a sip of hot chocolate to give him some time. "Um, Thornton?" he ventured, and winced, seeing my expression. "No, no, Marleau!!!" he remembered. "Marleau!"

"And who else? Who's my favorite player in the NHL?"

"Frieeeeeessssseeennnnnnn!!!" he hollered, before I'd gotten the whole sentence out. Then he looked at me gravely. "Why'd they trade Friesen?" he wanted to know.

He knows the answer. This is a ritual conversation.

"I don't know, baby. That's a good question. I don't know why anyone would have traded him. I just don't know."

Yeah. That's it. You know who you are, pal. You think they all forgot about you. But you've been marked by a four year old for some serious shirt messing.

We still miss Freeze. We still remember.

Watch out.

*

So after the coffee shop I took him by my work, which he's visiting before. After giving our leasing manager an enthusiastic high-five, G marched over to the cubicle where I've put him to play his video games on other times he's visited.

"Mom," he called over while I got the stuff I'd forgotten from my desk, "why is there all this stuff on my desk?" He pointed to the three hole punch. "This doesn't go here."

"Uh," I said, because really I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"And who put these papers here?" he wanted to know. "Great," he said with heavy sarcasm. "Now I have to clean all this up!"

I watched in amazement as he carefully transferred the three hole punch, the big stapler and a stack of brochures to another cube.

"This can stay here," he said about a ream of color copy paper. "In case I need it next time I'm here."

"OK," I said, still not quite sure how to respond to all this.

"Mom," he said, looking up at me seriously. "Tell people not to put things on my desk, OK?"

There wasn't much else to say. "OK, Gavin, I'll send out an email," I said.